


Distance

by Trillion_G



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Inaccuracies, Pandemic - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillion_G/pseuds/Trillion_G
Summary: A respiratory illness is sweeping the globe. How will Sherlock cope?Pre-slash, takes place roughly in season 2. Not beta'd or britpicked or reviewed for medical accuracy.
Relationships: Anthea/Original Female Character, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone's taking their shot at sickfics since it's so relevant in our lives, and here's mine. The illness in this fic is an unnamed respiratory virus, though not necessarily COVID-19.
> 
> I have two more parts to this planned.

It started with a persistent tickle in Sherlock's throat. Just one more nagging complaint to be shoved aside in favor of the pursuit of answers. Sometimes the cacophony of his transport’s alarms would flood his mind palace. When they became inescapable, he’d begrudgingly shift his attention to clear the matter up: remove the stone in his shoe or collapse against an alley wall to take in huge heaving breaths during a foot chase. More commonly his body would bypass his busy brain to perform the necessary self maintenance: shift in position to restore circulation to a numbing limb or faint into a dreamless sleep after too many consecutive hours without food and rest.

The nagging tickle in his chest and throat was of the latter category. The consistent cough that prevented the annoying sensation from breaking his concentration was completely involuntary. He was oblivious to it; it was only the muscle memory of manners that triggered him to cover each cough with the back of his hand or turn away from the crime scene details when his hands were inextricably occupied.

Since the moment Sherlock had ducked yellow crime scene tape at the entrance of the fitness club, the small throng of police officers and investigators had been in constant nervous motion. Sherlock had made note of the unusual atmosphere of the crime scene upon arrival, but it was a vague notion, more of a gut feeling, and he instantly swept the observation into a mental box labelled “periphery minutia box 1.” The box would be stored in a cabinet of the temporary room of his in his mind palace dedicated to this investigation until he was sure it could be safely deleted. He needed all the available bandwidth to assess the body and adjacent details.

But the initial observation came floating up from the refuse box as the thick quiet descended over the crime scene. One particularly persistent bout of coughing and throat clearing prompted a tense stillness in the room. Sherlock’s coughing fit had only lasted seconds, but all eyes were drawn to him, a solo performer at the climax of a ballet.

After clearing his throat and taking a single deep breath, he was sure that his transport was satisfied for the moment. But his audience was still rapt, unaware that the performance was complete. Their anticipation was visible in the lines of their faces and positioning of their bodies, even through layers of PPE.  _ No... not anticipation. Anxiety. _ What had he done to trigger this response in these slow, stupid people?

“What’s wrong? What the devil is everyone staring at? Gary?” The acerbic words would have had more effect if his usual baritone hadn’t been reedy from his raw throat.

Greg Lestrade moved two steps towards Sherlock, then paused and backed away a step. “I  _ really _ wish you’d just wear the damn mask, you blockhead.” The DI shoved a blue paper mask in Sherlock’s direction.

Confusion warred with irritation on the consulting detective’s face as he pulled the mask on. “We settled this years ago.”

“Well even you’re not invincible to this.” When Sherlock just stared at Greg, the DI dropped his voice and stepped closer. “Bloody hell, don’t tell me your brother’s hoarding away a vaccine for the elite and their families. People are dying!”

“People die every day. Case in point…” Sherlock gestured at the body which should have been the prime focus.

Greg ran a hand through his thick gray hair. “I’m too tired for this. You know what I mean. Don’t make light of what’s going on just because you know your brother would sweep you away to a posh private clinic the minute you temperature ticks up even a point.” At Sherlock’s empty gaze, he sighed heavily. “Do I need to call John? I don’t want to bother him because God knows he’s busy, but if it takes him bullying you into--”

“John’s been… out. A lot. For… reasons I can’t seem to...” Sherlock trailed off with another cough directly into the mask. He scowled and involuntarily cleared his throat again, his forehead scrunched and lips pursed. “Greg, this is nothing. I, ah, lunch went down the way. It’s not like I have--” 

Sherlock’s brain chose to “push play” on his eidetic memory of this afternoon’s events at lunch...

_ Sherlock has been sat at the kitchen table, robotically snacking on bits of reheated sticky rice with one hand, while scrolling and clicking on his laptop with the other. His research into craft brewing was related to the case of the Health Club serial murders that had captured every bit of his attention for almost three weeks. _

_ It was just as he had clicked on the Wikipedia article for Agaricales that John’s voice filtered through the cracks of his concentration. John had been out of the flat for long stretches of time, but Sherlock would have to review much more mental film to deduce the reason for this pattern of absences. _

_ “One a day, Sherlock, that’s all I ask.” Sherlock’s eyes had halted in his reading, pausing in an attempt to pick up the threads of John’s one-sided lecturing coming from the bathroom. “Oh.” John said in a tone of happy surprise, though Sherlock sensed an undercurrent of exhaustion. “Good, you’ve eaten a good portion there, mate. Staying nourished will help you avoid this.” _

_ “Yes, yes, food, sleep, always on about--” his sentence faded off. Sherlock looked up from his laptop just as he popped another morsel of rice into his mouth.  _

_ The scent of eucalyptus, sandalwood, cocoa butter, and cheap shaving foam floated on gentle clouds of steam escaping into the hallway. The combination was not the usual After Shower John, as the sandalwood and eucalyptus meant John had borrowed Sherlock’s pricier shampoo. _

_ Sherlock’s scent all over John normally would have struck a chord in Sherlock’s chest, the sensation he would have forced himself to immediately disregard. But that chord was overruled by a clanging silence as Sherlock set eyes on John. His flatmate was leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, wreathed in a halo of light which reflected from the droplets falling from his damp hair onto bare shoulders. More glittering water highlighted the surgeon’s chest hair, only slightly wooly.  _

_ For two long seconds, a sinful drop of water spilled from the hollow of his collarbone, following the rivulet of a white webbed scar. Sherlock couldn’t help but follow the imagined path the droplet would have travelled downward (had it not hung on the peak of a pebbled nipple). Down, downward on a canvas of pale delicious skin from the chest, down to the organic curves of the belly grown slightly soft on London takeout, down through the trail of hair growing thicker and darker, narrowing to a bush cut off by the dark blue terry bath towel slung low on narrow hips canted forward. _

_ When John shifted in the next second, the small movement caused the towel to catch for just a fraction of a moment on a hidden bulge of flesh. _

_ Sherlock gasped sharply for air, but neglected to account for a mouthful of rice. _

_ He was able to avoid the terminal humiliation of spitting chewed rice across the kitchen and onto his half nude flatmate, turning his head before the body-wracking coughing and spluttering started. _

_ “Jesus, Sherlock.” John rushed to fill a glass with tap water, pushing it into Sherlock’s hand. The detective tried to drink, but immediately lunged toward the kitchen sink and coughed up the mouth full of water. He gasped, fighting the bodily spasms for air.  _

_ John nestled in behind Sherlock, crowding him against the counter. “Sherlock do I need to--” _

_ “No,” Sherlock forced out, spitting thickly into the sink. He held up a hand, and John paused just as he’d made the decision to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s abdomen for heimlich. The taller man took in a full chest of breath, coughing only slightly, and spitting one more time. He turned on the tap and used his hands to direct a few mouthfuls of water to his face. _

_ “You okay there?” John chucked now that the danger had passed. _

_ “Wrong hole,” Sherlock croaked. Both men froze as they processed the comment in combination with their position: Sherlock bent at the waist over the sink, John pressed fully against him, hips to ankle, with his hand bracketing Sherlock’s ribcage. _

_ Sherlock eyes slammed shut as he also tried to slam the door on the awareness of John’s fingers twitching, his knee notched neatly into Sherlock’s, his-- _

_ John sprang away suddenly. “I shouldn’t be touching-- I could be--” Sherlock heard his flatmate take a steadying breath, then turned slowly to face him, sagging slightly against the edge of the counter. Sherlock wondered if his face was glowing with the same blush that John wore. His awareness started flooding with bits of articles, books, and memories in an attempt to remember if it was possible to die from embarrassment. _

_ It was John, ever brave and empathetic, that spoke first in a light manner. “Just my luck I’d get you through this just to watch you succumb to pulmonary aspiration of fucking Vietnamese.” _

_ Sherlock felt foggy as he tried to fully exit his mind palace and slow his racing heart. “Thai,” he corrected, failing to understand the context of the rest of John’s words. _

_ “Yeah, well.” John dropped his head back and rubbed at the muscle that was patterned in scar tissue. Sherlock grasped onto the sight like a lifeline back to reality. In their year of cohabiting, he’d never had a full view of the wound, just peeks of the white and pink flesh. John’s words faded back into a background buzz as Sherlock stared. “I know I need to be keeping my distance from you even after a shower. I’m almost certain to be a carrier by now. I swear those bastards in charge are going to pounce on this as an opportunity to completely tear down the NHS.” John stepped backward into the bathroom to finish his routine. As he did, Sherlock looked into John’s face to determine if he’d been caught staring. _

In current time, the “replay” slowed as he picked details from the memory. A raw chafing below John’s ear that was close to scabbing. Bruising and discoloration in a band underneath his eyes, spanning across his nose. A sharp indent and matching bruising across his forehead, dark splotches from exhaustion under the eyes, cracked skin around the knuckles and cuticles. Exhaustion, unbroken hours in PPE, excessive hand washing, long stretches away from the house on double and triple shifts at the clinic. 

Other threads of memory started to gather into the story: John motioning Mrs. Hudson out the door without the expected farewell hug or peck on the cheek as she left for an indefinite stay at her sister’s cottage. Internet ads for exorbitantly priced face masks. The unnatural quiet of reduced motor and foot traffic on a normally bustling Baker Street. Snippets of news broadcasts from the television John kept falling asleep in front of, curled on the couch. Data points of continually climbing numbers read out by the somber voices of the BBC news broadcasters.

All of it coalescing into the fact that Britain was in the midst of a once-in-a-century pandemic from a--

“--Respiratory virus.” Sherlock spoke the words, completing the sentence fluidly.  _ It’s not like I have a respiratory virus. _ Behind the paper mask, Sherlock’s mouth hung open. His kaleidoscope eyes were wide in horror.

Over the years of their association, Greg had been privy to this lightning strike of Sherlock’s slamming face first into a conclusion. Usually it meant the best for Greg: that Sherlock had finally solved the puzzle of a crime scene. A few times it had meant that he was finally catching on to something that was glaringly obvious to everyone else in the room (usually in matters of the heart or sex). Sally had once wondered, after a few pints into a round at a post-case pub visit, if that was Sherlock’s “O face” (until everyone at the table collectively decided Sherlock was too much of a robot for sex).

But how Sherlock could have missed almost a month of frantic news reports about a global pandemic ravaging the country was more than Greg could grasp at the moment. “The penny drops. Did you really not fucking know until now, you, you--”

“Freak.” Sally supplied. Greg gave her a solid glare, undiminished by the mask covering his mouth and nose. She shrugged, but had the sense to turn back to monitor the forensics team on the body.

“Lestrade…” Sherlock coughed as his attention was locked somewhere in the middle distance. Greg thought the consulting detective looked a bit lost, and his frustration eased a bit.

“Hey, welcome to earth. Are you sure about that cough? Maybe you should go home or try to find a testing site. You think John would know--”

“John!” Sherlock’s wide eyes locked onto Greg’s, and the DI could see all the pistons firing. Sherlock burst into motion, gathering his fine tools into their leather roll. “I need to-- John’s--”

“Yeah, I get it. Before you go, you got anything for me here?” Greg did his best to escort Sherlock towards the entrance of the health club while keeping a responsible distance from him.

“Contact whomever is searching his residence. If there’s a home brewing setup, arrest his boss.” Sherlock was scanning the street for a cab, but started frantically pacing and tearing at his hair when none were to be found. . 

“Like a still? Sherlock, what do you mean about his boss?”

“Just do it!” Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lestrade, I’ll text you the rest or come in for a statement later. I  _ need _ to go right now.”

As a glossy black armored car pulled up to the curb, Greg glanced at the nearest CCTV camera. “Yeah, ok. Go on, but you have to text me  _ tonight _ . I mean it!” He leaned down to be better heard as Sherlock ducked into the car. “Give my regards to Himself. And give my best to John, too. I’m here if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded in thanks to Lestrade and shut the heavy door. Noticing he was alone in the back seat, he pulled off the paper mask and rapped on the partition of the driver’s cabin to signal his readiness.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock bypassed the front entrance of the Dionysus club and instead slipped into an alley at the building’s side. He’d spent the ride absorbing every scrap of information he could find about the virus that was decimating the world’s citizens across every continent. It seemed only the International Space Station was spared as the threat found its way to remote islands and even the science outpost on Antarctica.

He alternated his research with a string of texts to John’s phone that, expectedly, went unanswered. He realized the doctor must barely have time for even restroom breaks.

Having correctly surmised that the club would be barred to all visitors, Sherlock pulled open a grating in the alley pavement, made his way down 10 feet of rungs that were devoid of the expected filth, and stood, waiting in the dark. The street lamps provided little light this far down, which helped his eyes adjust quickly to find a faint blue light to his left. He approached, staring into the light as he fumbled to find the handprint scanner.

A beep and a clank confirmed he was still on the roster for the underground entrance to Mycroft’s office. A heavy metal door cracked open to the low ceiling hallway. Standing there, tapping away on her phone, was Mycroft’s aloof assistant. The lower part of Anthea’s face was covered in an elegant gray felted mask that fit snuggly to her face. Sherlock’s eyes scanned from her head to her leather ballet flats, and she graced him with a flash of eye contact and a raised eyebrow before returning to her phone. Wordlessly she handed him a plastic sealed bag with a felt facemask to match her own, then turned and led him down the hall.

An almost invisible door entered into her office, and she walked him past her desk which held a single book under a stack of folders and an unfinished paper cup of soup. “I interrupted your dinner.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, then asked, “Can I get you anything?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself.” He waved her off as she opened the door behind her desk to Mycroft’s office. 

“Sir.”

“Evening brother!” Sherlock’s predatory tone tore Mycroft’s focus away from his phone. The older Holmes’s expression instantly darkened. “I know you’ll bugger anything on two legs, but isn’t dallying with the help a little on the nose?”

“Sherlock, put on the mask.” Mycroft ordered in a clipped tone as he stood. “And you  _ know  _ I that I’d never--”

Sherlock turned, his coat swirling, and crowded the assistant against the door. “Really Andrea? If you’re going to try a tumble with the male side of our species, you can certainly do better than Mycroft.” She stiffened at the use of her real name, but schooled herself to only allow a quirked eyebrow (and pursed lips behind the mask).

“Sherlock. Put on your mask or I’ll put it on you!” That Mycroft’s words were said through clenched teeth only made Sherlock smirk. “Who knows what dens of filth you’ve been crawling around in.”

“‘Uncle Sherlock.’ Hmm.” He tried the statement out loud. “You’re about three, no, four months along now? Your stance indicates you’re starting to feel discomfort in your lower back and pelvic girdle when you stand--” Sherlock’s sentence ended in a gagging cough as Anthea twisted Sherlock into a choke hold.

Mycroft barely concealed a smirk as he bent to retrieve the bagged mask from the floor. When it was in Sherlock’s outstretched hand, Anthea released the hold on his neck, but shoved him to the ground with a knee to his lower back.

When she released him at Mycroft’s single, Sherlock stood, trying to contain a cough and popping open the plastic bag. Anthea pointedly slathered her hands in sanitizing gel.

“Suppose I deserved that,” Sherlock said from behind his mask. He rubbed at the ache in his lower back. “So it’s true what they say about pregnancy strength.”

Before she could reach her stun gun, Mycroft smoothly commanded, “My dear, you’re excused. Thank you for showing in our guest.” Anthea scowled but left the room, closing the door with a civilized click. “Do not terrorize my staff as you know the level to which they’ve been trained.”

“The tea lady and her one-inch punch?”

“Mmyes, and a once-in-a-generation marksman.” The cold facade slid into place, erasing the lapse in control that Sherlock had elicited from Mycroft. “I’m very busy Sherlock.”

Sherlock scratched at elastic that was winding in his dark curls. “Why do she and I have to wear masks and you don’t? Are reptiles immune to the virus?”

Mycroft’s withering glare did nothing to put Sherlock in his place. “Why are you here?”

“You brought me here.”

“You were searching for a cab.” Sherlock shrugged with a half eyeroll, refusing to give in first. “Brother, you were expressing respiratory distress at a filthy crime scene--”

“It’s a health club, Mycroft, not a drug den. You’d know if you ever visited one.”

Mycroft continued, “Then seemed to have a seizure of some sort.”

“Stop exaggerating,” Sherlock scoffed. “I just…” He trailed off, keeping his eyes on his folded hands in his lap. When he finally glanced up at Mycroft, the older Holmes could see the silent plea.

“You’ve always had such pointed focus, little brother. This case has enraptured you entirely, hasn’t it? And without Doctor Watson’s presence to keep you grounded…” Mycroft paused when Sherlocked squeezed his eyes shut at John’s name.

“Mycroft, he’s out there, with these infected people, touching them, sharing their air. Every day.” Sherlock couldn’t make eye contact as he said these words, and his leg was bouncing enough that Mycroft could feel the vibrations through the floor. He finally took pity.

“He’s being tested everyday before his shift, Sherlock.”

“How has his clinic been able to acquire enough tests for that?”

“ _ My _ office has been testing him.”

“He’s been coming here before his shifts? This is the opposite direction from Baker Street to the clinic.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, taking the moment to decide how much to reveal. “Only once did he come to me. The day the first case on British soil was announced in the press. He tried to convince me to have you tested everyday, and I countered, requesting that he quit his job and shelter in place at Baker Street.”

“A stalemate?”

Mycroft showed a flash of confused amusement. “Your noble doctor refused my request, believing that every trained medic should make themselves available.”

Sherlock felt a swell of pride, but was unsure how he felt about John putting the health of the nation before his desire to protect Sherlock. “Good. I know he’ll refuse to stay away from the action. At least one of us is being monitored.” At Mycroft’s silence, Sherlock sneered. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Mycroft. Is some poor lackey picking through our bins to steal bits of my refuse for secret testing? Really, Mycroft.”

“Brother…” Mycroft sounded suddenly tired. “I don’t have time for games. We haven’t been able to rule out that this could be a man-made bioweapon.” He could see the subtle pinch of Sherlock’s lips. “Ah, you’re repressing it then. Every morning, I have staff conducting nasal swabs on you. Of  _ course  _ I have you on the list for daily monitoring. For national security of course.” The flickering of Sherlock’s eyes confirmed his theory. “You  _ fully _ consented to this. But considering that this is quite an invasive procedure, I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve elected to ‘delete’ these daily encounters in favor of focusing on that rather trivial serial murder case for the Dectective Inspector.”

Sherlock regained his focus on Mycroft. “‘National security’. Sentiment, brother.”

“No. But I know that if either one of you succumbs to this, the other will do something stupid. Maybe something that could cause a stir in the diplomatic community. The pot has been stirred quite enough at the moment.” Mycroft rose from his chair.

“How long until it boils over?” He could see Mycroft droop only a fraction, and relented. “He was showing signs of muscle aches this morning.”

“Our health professionals are all showing signs of fatigue. Including the team working on a vaccine. His morning results were clear.” When Sherlock coughed, Mycroft frowned. “As were yours. But please isolate yourself from him this evening. We don’t yet know the rate for false negatives. I’m switching you both to a saliva test, which I’ve had confirmed today generates fewer false negatives.” From the slight movements of Sherlock’s exposed facial muscles, Mycroft could tell he was chewing on his bottom lip. “If I ask you again to permanently shelter in place at Baker Street--”

“I have to solve this case. He’s murdering innocent people.”

“I don’t care about  _ people _ , Sherlock.” The detective could extrapolate the end of that sentence.  _ I care about you.  _ Mycroft’s exhaustion was worse than Sherlock first realized if his control over those annoying emotions was crumbling. He saw his opportunity.

“Is her baby really not carrying your genes? You were awfully uptight when I was breathing on her.”

“I never said that,” Mycroft smoothly replied.

“You donated your sperm to her?” Sherlock made a face, promising to himself to never think of sperm in conjunction with his brother ever again.

Mycroft really didn’t have time for games. “She and her wife had been searching for a donor. I offered. She’s in excellent health, graduated with the highest of marks from an accelerated program from a prestigious university, and has proven herself most trustworthy.”

“And it’s mummy’s only chance at grandchildren, I suppose. They turned down your offer of a turkey baster?”

Mycroft scrowled. “Must you? They initially agreed. But at the eleventh hour they had..” Mycroft waffled as Sherlock started to open the door.

“A better offer? Who-- oh please say it’s Tony Blair. Or some American. That would be  _ delicious _ .”

Anthea approached with a file in hand, and supplied: “A Canadian MP, actually. A rising star in Canada from a political family.” The book of baby names on her desk was fully visible now.

“In more ways than one. I theorize he’s the illegitimate son of a Cuban dictator, but she threatens to shoot me when I remind her.” Sherlock knew that Mycroft's long-time assistant was one of the very few people who could get away with such jests. He had never taken well to harmless threats, teasing, or any other attempt to undermine his dignity.

“Please do us all the favor,” Sherlock begged.

She barely deadpanned, “Too much hassle to find a new job. Will you be needing a car, sir?” Sherlock had long ago ceded the argument against her referring to him deferentially.

“No, I’ll call a cab.”

“No cabs,” Mycroft and Anthea said in unison. Mycroft continued. “No enclosed spaces with people. Lifts, shops, and especially cabs. Supplies enough for two people will continue to be delivered to Baker Street.”

“I’ll be careful, Mycoft. Aren’t I always?” Mycroft’s micro expression was mirrored in exaggeration by the incredulous expression on Anthea’s less-schooled features as Sherlock flounced away to the underground exit.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

At the sounds of heavy footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock’s fingers stilled halfway through writing a snarky text to Lestrade. He tossed his phone to the desktop and stood from his chair. “John,” he breathed as his flatmate entered the sitting room. The shadows under his eyes had darkened, and the skin that was visible around his white mask was flushed an angry red..

Sherlock approached to help when John started struggling out of his jacket, but the doctor pulled back sharply. “No no--” he winced at the sudden movement. “I need to shower first. I wore my gown way too long today.”

Sherlock gestured at his face with gloved hands. “John, just… sit. For a moment.”

John’s glassy eyes lit up as he took in Sherlock in the gray felt mask and gloves. “You prat. I’ve been begging you to wear a mask. Were you refusing to wear it until you could find something posh?”

Sherlock offered a mug of tea which John took with freshly washed hands. He herded his smaller flatmate to the couch and pressed a sealed plastic bag with a Mycroft-issued felt mask into his hands.. He dodged the question, not because John was teasing, but because he wasn’t ready to admit that he had been so buried in a case, that he had deleted knowledge of daily nasal swabs and the largest cultural disruption in a lifetime.

“How’s the tea?”

John furrowed his brow. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but it’s bloody awful. You know, you have to leave the teabag in for more than a second.”

Sherlock frowned. “You have a headache, your muscle aches are worse, and you’re exhausted. What else?”

“Everyone’s exhausted,”John mumbled as he dropped his head back on the leather couch. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and sighed. “Stomach’s a bit dodgy, but that’s stress.” When the pressure of those alien eyes continued, John lifted his head. “My morning test came back negative, Sherlock.”

“And just this morning you admitted you’re likely a carrier by now.” He carefully avoided mention of the circumstances of that conversation. His skin wore the memory of the warmth of John’s hands radiating through his ribs, directly to his heart. “You only deny it now because the hypothetical has become reality.” 

Sherlock retrieved his phone from the desk. John made weak protests as the line connected. He didn’t waste time with a greeting. “You mentioned false negatives on the nasal swab. I need a saliva test done on him tonight.” A pause. “Fever, muscle aches, headache, digestive disruption, inability to taste.” John’s eyes shifted to his mug, then back to Sherlock. The detective could see the moment John accepted the truth: he was infected with the virus. “No, no coughing or wheezing.” Sherlock sent a silent thank you out into the universe that John wasn’t an asthmatic or a smoker, though he’d sometimes pondered the damage his lungs may have incurred from tear gas or other gaseous weapons in Afghanistan.

Twenty minutes later, John was showered, then bundled under a few blankets on the couch. Sherlock was alternating pacing around the sitting room with long, unblinking staring into the fireplace. He spotted the black SUV pull up to the curb, and raced down the 17 steps to reach the door before the agent could knock or ring. “Why are you here?” he seethed at Mycroft. The masked and gloved agent next to Mycroft shifted and failed to hide his shock under the mask.

“You requested a saliva test.” Mycroft stepped around Sherlock and directed his man in behind him.

“I assumed John would spit into a cup, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to direct it on your shoes instead. So kind.” Sherlock started to lead them up the stairs, but Mycroft stepped into his path.

“Albert, please see to Doctor Watson’s sample collection upstairs.” The agent left the brothers in search of his patient.

“I still don’t understand why you’d risk coming here.” Sherlock noted that Mycroft was now equipped with a wool felt mask and long-cuffed medical gloves. The older Holmes offered a plastic tube to Sherlock. 

“Because I want to guarantee the sample is your own. Face me as you do it.” Sherlock had started to turn away for this disgusting task.

“Why should I be doing this for free? I’m sure the very discreet professional ladies and young men you frequent charge at least a hundred quid to let you watch.” He produced another mouth full of saliva. “I’ve been told I have a particularly alluring mouth.”

“What methods you used to procure illicit substances when your trust fund was cut off is your business,” Mycroft quipped. Sherlock’s scowl deepend, and he spit one last time. He capped the tube and dropped it into the bag Mycroft held open. “You  _ have  _ been known to volunteer other parties’ bodily fluids to pass tests.”

“There’s no reason for me to fake this. If anything you should have monitored John’s collection. He’s in denial.”

Arthur came back down the stairs with John, wrapped in a blanket, in tow. He took the second sample and Mycroft’s used gloves, then stepped out to the SUV to run both samples with the portable equipment. 

“Evening Mycroft. I’d have you up for tea, but I don’t think you’ll like what’s floating in that tube.”

“Good evening Doctor Watson. Yes, you’re very kind to consider my health. If you’d kindly do the same for my brother; I was about to request that he leave Baker Street to shelter in a highly secure facility.”

Sherlock’s scowl devolved into a wild snarl, teeth bared behind the mask. “Absolutely not! Stop asking!”

John stepped down a stair and sat on the landing. “He has a point, Sherlock. You need to distance yourself from me.”

“John, my place is here. Taking care of you.” 

“Where you’re almost guaranteed to be infected, brother.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock softened his tone into a plea as he took one stair up towards John. He gripped the banister tightly. “You shouldn’t be alone. What if you get so much worse, bad enough to be admitted? Who will be there to notice?” 

“The flat has one loo, which I have to pass through the kitchen and the hallway to reach. It’ll be impossible for me to completely quarantine from you.”

His tone sharpened. “I  _ will not _ go!”

“Then I will have you dragged from here, brother.”

“Hold on,” John said as Sherlock dropped slightly into a defensive stance, blocking the stairway. “Mrs. Hudson will remain out of the city for the duration of the shelter. Stay in 221A. You’ll be far enough from me to be safe…”

“And only 17 steps away if you call. John, you’re brilliant!” Sherlock struggled against himself as he wanted to surge at his flatmate-- former flatmate, temporarily.

Mycroft was silent for a few beats, tapping his umbrella against the sole of his shoe. Arthur knocked and immediately entered, giving two papers and a knapsack to Mycroft before leaving quickly. “Very well. You’ve always had quite a high tolerance for the filthiest places, brother mine. So remain in 221 with your infected Doctor.” John cursed. He’d  _ known _ what the results would be, but still held hope that this was just a stray influenza bug. “For now your test results remain negative, Sherlock. My wish is that you stay confined in this building, yes, even with a serial killer on the loose.”

“Great, I’ll have to depend on Anderson’s subpar forensic photography if any other victims appear.”

“Which you would be doing from the secure bunker.” Mycroft transferred the bag to Sherlock. “Sample collection tubes and the accompanying medical paraphernalia. These are difficult for my office to come by, so refrain from using them in experiments. Leave your sample outside the door every morning at 8 o’clock so I can continue to monitor you.”

Sherlock rummaged through the knapsack to find supplies such as non contact thermometer, gloves, bottles of paracetamol and co-codamol, more packaged wool masks… A hefty device caught his attention. “Portable oxygen?”

“Of course I do hope it doesn’t come to that. But if his saturation deteriorates, this will ease the discomfort as you wait for transport to a medical facility. Take care, Dr. Watson, Sherlock. I beg you to practice safe cohabitation. I will be in touch.”

With Mycroft out the door, Sherlock seemed to collapse in on himself a little. “He knew you’d refuse to go,” John said, nodding at the knapsack.

“John,” Sherlock uttered, his voice strained. He started up the stairs towards him.

John scrambled back. “Nuh uh. I didn’t suggest this plan just to get him off our back. You really do need to stay out of 221B.”

Sherlock huffed but nodded. “Take my bed. Closer to the loo and the kitchen. Much better linens and mattress.”

“Hardly used,” John teased back at him. “I know you hate sleeping in unfamiliar places. But you’re going to be so wrapped up with this serial killer that you’ll hardly rest anyway. Is the Wifi good enough at Mrs. Hudson’s?”

“Adequate. It’s advisable for you to gather anything you may need from your bedroom now while you still have the energy. I’ll change my sheets and heat you up soup.”


	4. Chapter 4

The detective and the doctor fell into a routine. Though they were physically parted, most of their day was spent together: John would wake up mid morning, feeling like hell. He had dragged Sherlock’s leather chair to the door of the sitting room and would eat what food he could tolerate while sitting there, facing out to talk to Sherlock who perched himself on the landing halfway down the staircase. 

John knew the old building filtered noise down into 221A easily, but Sherlock always seemed to be there on that landing the moment John had his toast and tea. The doctor part of his brain knew that the eight stairs separating them was a slight risk to Sherlock, but he couldn’t find the heart to eat in the sitting room without the deep timbre of his flatmate’s voice washing over him.

They worked the case together while John was able to stay awake and upright. John guessed that Sherlock slept little in contrast to his own fatigue. The illness caused John to collapse on the couch for a kip at frequent intervals, completely wrecking his circadian rhythm. But no matter the hour, Sherlock was there on the landing as soon as John was awake enough to discuss the case.

Supplies materialized swiftly if John made mention of running low. He’d drag himself from the chair to the couch for a troubled sleep, and awake to bags in front of the sitting room door. “Sherlock, you know you need to stay down there. Don’t bring these up. I swear I’ll survive without honey.”

“Mycroft’s minions bring them up,” Sherlock lied breezily without looking up from his laptop. John just sighed and shuffled (and groaned) to deposit the items on the kitchen counter.

About a week into their arrangement, John jerked awake on the couch, gasping. The details nightmare was trickling away from him, but the terror remained. He remembered the dusty skies of Kandahar, blood pounding in his ears, and crimson splashing across his knuckles. His dream self knew the body below him had been shot in the chest, but he couldn’t find the wound even after stripping and frantically searching. The injured soldier’s identity changed with every blink: James Sholto, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and the face of the first patient John ever lost. But the tortured bubbling breaths remained the same.

“Goddamn it! Can we get some lights in here!?” John shouted as the room was growing hazier. He looked out of the tent flap to see a dust storm overtaking them. He knew if he could find the chest wound and treat it, the dust would retreat, but though the blood was pouring, the bullet hole remained elusive. The patient’s gasping turned to choking coughs, and the unseen heart monitor beeped an alarm. “No no no. No!” The dust thickened, the air dirty with sand, and the heart monitor blared. John took in a deep breath to shout another curse, but the sand overtook him.

He woke up gasping, unable to get enough air to cough. Fighting the unshakable fatigue, he stood from the couch to start pacing, but quickly had to collapse into the leather chair at the sitting room door. “Fuck,” he whispered. Even the most minor physical activities were sapping more of his strength. Standing long enough to slap together tea and toast before this nap had caused his heart to race painfully.

After long minutes of deep breathing, he felt steady enough to sit up in the leather chair. He saw the stairway was almost pitch black with the weak orange light from the streetlamps illuminating piles of white cloth on the landing below. John frowned at the bundle, and in the pale light he started to make sense of the scene. Inky curls splashed across a white pillowcase, and the outline on a body curled tightly under the blankets resolved.

It made sense to John suddenly: how Sherlock was always right there seemingly the moment John stirred awake. A few empty mugs and a trailing extension cord plugged into a surge protector powering Sherlock’s laptop and phone cemented the idea that Sherlock was practically living on that landing.

He gasped, his heart bursting with affection. But the moment was ruined as a bout of coughing gripped him.

Sherlock instantly sat up amongst the makeshift bed. “John!”

The doctor held up a hand, commanding Sherlock to stay downstairs. “Don’t!” he gasped in between fits.

Sherlock sat up on his knees. Deep lines of worry creasing his face. Just as he decided to buck “orders” and go up the stairs, John gasped deeply and collapsed backward in the chair.

“Oh, god,” he groaned. Sherlock could see John trembling even in the dim light. “Sherlock, you have to stay away. You must. Please.”

“Your symptoms are progressing.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” In the silent pause, John’s rattling breaths seems startling loud. “I’m calling it. You’re going.”

“No! Not... Sherlock, I’m fine! Please.” John pled as tears welled up in his eyes. “We agreed. I’m not going to hospital as long as my saturation is above 93 and my temp is below 39.3.” He took two large breaths before rising from the chair with a groan to reach the finger pulse-ox and the tympanic thermometer on the coffee table. “38.7” he announced, blinking rapidly to read the small screen on the termometer. Sherlock could see the digital red numbers on the pulse-ox flash 95.

“Normally those numbers would concern you,” Sherlock insisted. He was sitting in his pile of linens, nervously fiddling with his phone.

“Well normally we’re not seeing ICUs over capacity during a brutal pandemic. The NHS is bursting at the seams.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw, heaved a sigh, and looked up toward John. “Let me understand. The overtaxed NHS is your main concern.”

John tipped his head back, closing his eyes involuntarily. “Yes, Sherlock.”

“In a less perilous environment, you would let me call an ambulance?”

“Yeah.” 

Sherlock’s voice drifted further away from John, though because of a fever-dream or physical separation, he wasn’t sure. “I need to make a few calls.”

Seconds or hours later, John was roused awake by a gentle hand on his arm. “John, come on. Let’s go.” The ill doctor stood from his chair and took a few obedient steps towards the landing before his brain churned to life.

“Where we going?” he slurred. Though he felt like he was fighting through a fog, vision blurry and sound muffled, he could make out a metallic clang on the ground floor. He took a few steps down, supported by his flatmate, and spotted the medical gurney. “Sh’lock, I tol’ you no ambulance!” John immediately regretted shouting, wincing against the pounding in his head.

“Your concern was the NHS. We’re not going to hospital. Come on, John!” Sherlock ordered. His eyes blazed above a medical-grade mask and behind a clear plastic shield. Sherlock’s large hands clad in blue nitrile gloves grasped John’s bicep firmly, supporting him down the remaining stairs. At the bottom, John was heaving and failing to hold back body-wracking coughs.

Two people of indeterminate gender equally armed with PPE lowered the gurney and pulled John to the bed with sure hands. “Doctor Watson, I’m Holly and this is Jordan. We’re going to be taking care of you, now.” She and her partner worked quickly to secure John, who was quickly giving back into the desire to sleep now that he was horizontal.

“Mr. Holmes, we’re going to take good care of him. Here’s our card with a direct li--”

“No, I’m going with him in that ambulance.” Sherlock flung the business card away.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Holly planted her feet in the open doorway of 221. Though she was a head shorter than Sherlock, she didn’t budge as he approached her personal space.

“Sherlock!” John called from the sidewalk, his voice distorted by an oxygen mask. “Listen to her. You should stay at Baker Street.”

Sherlock ignored Johna and continued to stare down his adversary. “I assume you know the name Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yes, in fact he personally gave me strict orders not to allow you in the ambulance.” She took advantage of the moment she saw his taught shoulders fall a fraction. “Now,” she pulled another business card from a plastic sleeve clipped to her gown. “As I was saying, here’s our card with a direct line to a nurse’s station staffed 24/7. We can also call you with update three times a day if Doctor Watson adds you to his consent form.”

Sherlock followed her onto the sidewalk as she went out to help her partner load the gurney into the back of a black, unmarked ambulance.

“He’s in no condition to fill out paperwork,” Sherlock spat.

“Sherlock, stop it now!” John called out. “Come here.” Sherlock leapt up into the bay and sat in a jump seat.

“Sir, no!”

“Just, hold on, Holly. I just want to tell him a few things before we go… wherever we’re going.” John grasped Sherlock weakly at his shoulder. “I’m going to be fine. I’m a little tired, but I’m all here, I promise.” John tapped at his temple. “They’re just going to give my body a little help,” he winced as the nurse inserted a saline IV line into his arm. Sherlock swallowed a bitter, salty taste in his mouth as he stared at the needle pulling at the translucent skin of John’s arm.

“Sir,” Jordan said in a tone much more reserved than his partner. “We need to get going.”

“Look at me, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s at his demand. The doctor slid his hand from the ball of Sherlock’s shoulder to the junction near his neck. Jordan had the decency to look busy as Sherlock placed his own hand over John’s. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock knew he should be humiliated as his voice cracked, “It’s not.” But his eyes had gone back to the tape now holding John’s IV in place.

“It will be. I promise.” John gasped in a breath and coughed painfully into the oxygen mask for what felt like ages. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, urging back a tidal wave of emotion. Once John’s painful coughing fit passed, he spoke quickly, knowing the two nurses were running out of patience. “If I had my phone, I’d text Greg during the ride to warn him it’s a danger night. You have to text him instead, do you understand?” When Sherlock just swallowed, John shook him weakly. “You  _ have _ to.”

Sherlock took a breath and opened his eyes, staring intensely into John’s. “I’ll tell him.”

John sagged back against the bed, his eyes shutting as exhaustion took him. “I’ll see you soon, love.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open, unseen behind his mask. Jordan touched the detective on his arm. “Sir, we have to go.”

In a daze, Sherlock backed out of the ambulance bay, still staring as the double doors cut off the detective from his blogger. He felt hollow; a gaping hole ripped through his chest as the vehicle drove away with flashing lights and siren wailing. 


	5. Chapter 5

A battle raged inside Sherlock as he struggled with whether to archive this last image of John looking so small on the long gurney. It might well be the last time he saw his friend alive. But his preferred images of John as he lived in Sherlock’s memory shined brighter: the straight-backed soldier in the face of a suspect who had tried to lay hands on Sherlock during an interrogation, the Doctor who had continued compressions on a drowned victim long after exhaustion should have stopped him, his partner who had nodded when Sherlock pointed a pistol at a semtex vest to stop a madman.

The John in his mind palace was also the unassuming man wrapped in bulky wool sweaters and providing excellent cups of tea. And the one who giggled with him at crime scenes and snarked at Sherlock’s powerful brother.

And he was the John whose hot hands and firm thighs had crowded Sherlock up against a kitchen counter mere days ago.

“Sherlock, mate!” The detective blinked rapidly and had to catalog his surroundings. A dirty pale light was starting to glow on the eastern horizon, and there was a trickling of traffic on the street. Lestrade was standing in front of Sherlock in a blue paper mask. “There you are.”

Without responding, Sherlock turned to enter Baker Street. Lestrade had known Sherlock long enough to know that his leaving the door wide open was as much invitation as he was going to get.

“What are you doing here, Gabe?” Sherlock frantically paced the short length of the hallway between the entryway and the door to 221A, his hands threaded up through his hair.

“High Highness sent me,” Greg said, leaning against the front door. “Said he got an alert that John’s been admitted.” He held up an orange plastic zipping bag. “First things first, sample.”

Sherlock flipped his hand around dismissively. “That doesn’t matter right now! John’s there, out there, in the care of overworked nurses and exhausted doctors.”

“Yeah, but seriously. Swab. Here, I’ll do it.” Greg started pulling on latex gloves and unscrewing the cap on the collection vial. “Tell me what happened with John.” He hoped if he could get Sherlock talking, the younger man wouldn’t notice when Greg tried to shove a swab halfway to his brain.

“What do you think? He was well, then he wasn’t, then he was extremely unwell. What?! What are you doing?!” Sherlock swatted at Greg’s hand, sending the swab skittering across the hall.

“Oi! You need to get tested! You were in close contact with him, and don’t try to tell me you holed up at Mrs. Hudson’s all safe and sound as they carried him out on a stretcher.”

“I don’t need a test. I don’t need you or Mycroft interfering and hoverying! I  _ need  _ John to get better!”

Greg sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. He was on strict orders from Mycroft to get that sample. But for once, he could understand Sherlock’s strop even though it made his mission near impossible. “Look, Sherlock. I get it, I do. You’re terrified--”

“Terrified? Who’s terrified? I’m frustrated that everyone around me is  _ useless _ .”

“--and, yes, frustrated, too. I know it’s hard. I can’t image what I’d be like if my… uh, best friend were struck with this. But the only thing you can do right now is keep yourself healthy.” 

Sherlock huffed and collapsed on the second stair of the stairwell, wrapping his coat around him tightly.

Greg let him sulk as he unwrapped another swab. “You want to do this or am I?” Sherlock glared up at Greg, but ultimately took the stick and shoved it deep up into his nostril. “Christ, I have to psyche myself up everytime. And you just go stickin’ in up there.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose, wiggling it about for a moment before poking the stick into the collection tube Greg was holding. “Cocaine user. I’ve shoved worse things up there..”

“Offered to you by less savory people, I bet.” Greg replied solemnly as he unwrapped a second swab.

“Eh,” Sherlock teased, waving his hand in a “maybe/maybe not” gesture. After swabbing his second nostril, he replaced his mask before sneezing into it. “Ugh,” he complained. “Bit like wetting one’s trousers.” 

Greg chuckled and zipped the plastic bag. “Quite.” After dropping the bag into the insulated collection box outside the door of 221, he shut the front door and leaned against it again. “Look at you, wound so tight you look like you’re going to snap in half.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I’m utterly useless to him like this. Sitting. Wondering. Waiting!” He sprang from his seat on the stairwell to pace the entry hall again, all kinetic energy, frizzing curls, and tense muscles.

Greg rolled his shoulders. “Well, it’s all you can do, innit? You have to trust the medical staff, Sherlock. It’s not like you can just march in and demand to treat him yourself. It’s not Scotland Yard.” 

Sherlock instantly stilled. His back was to Greg, otherwise the DI would have seen Sherlock’s eyes scanning back in forth as if reading invisible writing.

All of the tension drained from Sherlock’s frame, and he pivoted to face Greg. “Lestrade, look at you. Bet you’re parched. I’m being a bad host.”

“You’re always a bad host.”

Sherlock waved his hand again and opened the door to 221A. “Come in, have a drink.”

“Sherlock, it’s half eight.”

“Thank you, Big Ben. Your shirts wrinkled, your teeth aren’t washed, and you look a fright. You’ve been up how long? Come on, I’ll sit in the kitchen and you can take the couch.” 

“Yeah, alright. What’s Mrs. H got in the cabinet? I’ll be sure Mycroft replishes her two fold for anything we nip.” Lestrade collapsed onto Mrs. Hudson’s outdated but utterly comfortable sofa with a sigh. “Christ, you’re not wrong. I haven’t slept in…” he tapped his phone to view the time, “I dunno how many hours. Lost track. I’m down two guys with positive cases, and another four are quarantining due to exposure. Turns out the criminal class doesn’t adhere to lockdown. Thanks, mate.” Sherlock set a glass of ice and a bottle of acceptable cognac on the table in front of Greg and retreated to the kitchen.

Sherlock folded himself up in a chair at the kitchen table as he poured a drink for himself. “At least you’re not roped into burglary calls right now.” Sherlock quipped.

An hour later, Greg had kicked off his shoes and gone horizontal on the couch. The bottle on the coffee table was significantly emptier than it had started, and the ice in his tumbler was long melted. “An’ then… an’ then, you w’uldn’t b’lieve what he said, Sh’lock.” Greg gasped, struggling to finish his tale through unfettered laughter. “You know what he says?”

Sherlock, stretched belly down in the entryway to the kitchen, was giggling along. “Wha’?”

“He goes, ‘Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ . I didn’t real’ze the Queen had popped round.’” Greg dissolved into peals of laughter, prompting Sherlock to guffaw, spraying spittle. “Oi, aerosols!” Greg admonished cheerfully as he wiped tears from his eyes. “Either pour y’rself another an’ catch up, or mask up.” When Sherlock mumbled in return, Greg picked up his head to glimpse his drinking buddy. “Christ, you light weight. You’re at least two glasses behind an’ you’re almost done in.”

Sherlock sat up on wobbling arms and refilled his glass with amber liquid. The two men lapsed into silence for a bit; it was broken by two deep sniffs from Sherlock. “Hey now, don’t get like that. You know he’ll be alright, yeah?”

“No, I  _ don’t  _ know that, Lestrade! The viral amount, load, thingy he got at that  _ stupid  _ clinic means he’s likely to go from bad to worst like that!” Sherlock tried to snap, but his long fingers, usually so elegant, appeared to be uncooperative. “He could slip ‘way the moment they turn their back.”

Greg tried to fight a yawn, but lost the battle. “I’m so sorry, Sh’lock. I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal sound, and silence descended on the flat again. “The texts they send me are useless. Just the same thing, over an’ over: ‘stabilized and resting.’” Sherlock blinked against the glare of his phone screen, willing another text to come through. Greg’s supportive reply was a raspy snore. 

Sherlock’s head snapped to his left at the sound. Where his eyes had been droopy and shining a moment ago, now they were as sharp and keen. He shot to his feet on steady legs and dumped the remainder of his drink into the nearby fiddle leaf tree which was sopping wet from the other three glass fulls he had been steadily disposing of.

On silent feet, he crept to the door of 221A, though he needn’t have bothered as Greg’s snores were increasing in timbre. “Took you long enough!” he hissed at Lestrade’s prone form. On the street, he waved his arm, summoning a taxi. “Devonshire Street, W1G.”

“Them’s medical clinics there. You ain’t sick?” the driver questioned, aiming a glare at Sherlock in the mirror.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied with a pop. “Just... volunteering. They can use all the help they can get.”


	6. Chapter 6

John jerked as an alarm screeched in his ear. Before he could figure out where he was or even what day it was, a team of people had descended on him. They were armored in plastic yellow gowns, double layers of masks, and clear face shields.

“Doctor Watson, how are you feeling? Can you talk to me?” one nurse asked as she held a button to raise the head of his bed a few degrees. A tall nurse clicked off the alarm while a third was piling bags of disposable medical odds and ends on John’s bed.

“Yes, yeah, I’m… where am--” a dry cough wrenched at his throat suddenly, taking him by surprise. The alarm started wailing again, and through the painful coughing, he caught the sound of paper and plastic bags being ripped open. The tall nurse pressed a plastic oxygen mask to his face, his long piano-player fingers completely engulfing the mask and brushing at John’s cheeks. The oxygen didn’t stop the rib-popping coughs, but it provided some relief when he was able to gasp a mouthful of air in between.

Finally the violent wracking subsided. “Shit,” he murmured, releasing the bed rails and collapsing. “Feel like I’ve fallen off a fifty story building.” The plastic mask distorted his voice in a way that was surfacing traumatic memories from another time he’d been stuck in a hospital bed. His eyes shut on their own accord, and he wanted to drift back to sleep to stop from remembering. But the pain in his chest and throat kept him conscious.

“Yeah, I bet so,” the heavy-set nurse said as she replaced a monitor that had slipped from his index finger. Her tone was crisp and serious, though not without a touch of honest sympathy. “Your O2 has been falling all morning, but not fast. Doctor Stern doesn’t think you’re anywhere near needing a vent, but you know how fast these things can go. Just concentrate on breathing.”

“Breathing is boring,” John grumbled. He heard one of the nurses at his side chuckle in a smooth baritone that was strangely comforting.

“I know, Doctor Watson,” commented the head nurse. “But that’s your only job right now, breathing. Bit of a break from being on your feet on the front lines, yeah?”

“I’d rather be on my feet for eighteen hours straight swabbing noses than in this damn bed.” To his horror, moisture pricked at his closed eyes, and he screwed up his face to banish the tingling sensation caused by the tears.

“It’s okay. Just breathe. Your stats are doing much better with the mask, so let’s just keep you--”

A cacophony of alarms sounded from the room across the hall from John’s, and his own room instantly emptied of all but one of the nurses. John’s heart fell as his ears picked out specific calls on the overhead speaker and sounds indicating the room’s occupant was in cardiac arrest. “God,” he gasped.

The remaining nurse, the tall one with the nice voice, stepped closer to his bed. “It’s not you, you’re fine,” the nurse whispered.

John opened his eyes and met the nurse’s gaze. Though every inch of the man was behind latex, plastic, or cotton, the top half of his face was visible through the clear plastic shield. His slightly upturned eyes were facets in blue, green, and gray.

“Sherlock?” John slurred. “‘m I dreaming?”

“Shh, you’re going to be okay,” Sherlock said, his voice still so quiet John could barely make out the words over the din across the hall. But the familiar baritone blanketed him in comfort.

“You shouldn’t be here. What the hell are you doing here?!” John asked, uncaring that tears were freely streaming down his face, following the plastic barrier of the oxygen mask.

With a gloved hand, Sherlock stroked silvery gold hair back from John’s sweaty brow. “Oh, you know, I can’t stand to be away from the action. You’re hogging all the attention,” Sherlock croaked. He cleared his throat. “I had to see you,” he confessed.

“God knows I would have you by my side, Sherlock, but you really really can’t be here.” In contrast to his words, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own. “You’re using up PPE, you dickhead.”

Sherlock laughed, sniffing against his own tears that threatened to spill. “I know. Do you need anything?”

“Just some water and some sleep.”

Sherlock moved quickly to produce a cup of water with a straw he could slip under John’s mask. He kept an eye on his O2 monitor as the patient greedily sucked it down. “I appreciate it, but what I need you to do is get out of here, right now. I don’t want you within a hundred yards of an infected person, do you understand?”

“John--”

“Do you understand?!” The effect of John’s “Captain Watson” voice was diminished when another round of painful coughs seized him. He braced against Sherlock’s arm, holding with a painfully tight grip, until the episode passed and he collapsed against the bed. “Shit, I’m shedding virus all over you.”

“I don’t care, John. I want to be here for you. Only you.”

John’s eyes were closed again, and his words came out in a weak slur. “I know, love, but I’d never forgive myself if you caught it. You have to leave. Please.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure if the wrenching tightness in his chest was due to John’s (second) slip of the tongue or the pleading tone in his voice. “Okay, John, I will. I am.”

“Thank you. Before you leave here, strip down and shower. Hot water.” John took a deep breath, feeling himself slipping into unconsciousness. “Lots of soap.”

Sherlock leaned over the bed, indulging himself one last time in running his hand down John’s face.

“I will. Just breathe, John. You’re getting the best treatment that the Holmes name can buy. I’ll see you at Baker Street. Soon.”

When Sherlock only received a hum in reply, he nervously peered at John’s monitors for reassurance that it was merely sleep taking him away. He hovered for a few more minutes before forcing himself away in search of the staff lounge. He had a lifted badge to return and a hot shower to find.


End file.
